“Yes. Please.” I let out a long breath and close my eyes.
He kisses my forehead, lingering with his lips pressed to my skin.
The vacation we’ve had planned for months couldn’t come at a better time. He’ll have finished this project, and we’ll both be able to unplug with the Mediterranean Sea lulling us to sleep every night for a week. It’s exactly what we need to get back on track.
5
Josefine
ExpectingTyler to unplug right away was delusional. The second we boarded the plane in Los Angeles, he was on his phone and his laptop. According to him, in order for him to step away from work on the cruise, he had to wrap several things up on the flight to Europe.
My dad always wanted to take me to Greece—the island of Crete, specifically—where his grandfather’s family is from. But when he was diagnosed with brain cancer, he knew that dream would not become a reality. Instead, before he died, he set some money aside for the trip. It became accessible when I turned twenty-one and came with specific instructions that included a cruise to the Greek islands. He passed away twelve years ago, and I’m finally taking that trip on the anniversary of his death.
On the days leading up to my father’s passing, I would crawl into his hospice bed. He’d whisper stories of visiting Crete as a child. Stories about his grandmother skinning a rabbit as casually as most people would water plants. And the time his sister pushed him off a cliff into the sea. Aunt Rachel, of course, denies the transgression. About the time a peacock chased him aroundthe botanical gardens. His cousin’s wedding when he was eleven; when his uncle let him drink wine, and he accidentally got drunk and threw up all over her wedding gown.
When I booked this trip six months ago, my mom had just checked herself out of rehab early. I hoped she would be better in time to accompany me, though, deep down, I knew she wouldn’t. And as I suspected, my mother is in no condition to travel to Greece—nor do I want to spend time with her in her current state.
I wanted to bring my cousin Millie, but when I was scheduling, she had just signed a contract to play Nessarose in the national tour ofWickedand couldn’t guarantee it would be wrapped up in time. Aunt Rachel couldn’t travel halfway across the world either. Between working part time and helping Asher raise his young daughter, she’s far too busy for an international trip at the moment. That left Tyler. It took some convincing, but in the end, he agreed it would be a nice break from work.
ThePoseidonset sail from the Piraeus port in Athens and spent the first day and night at sea. We woke up at the island of Paros and spent several hours sightseeing. After another day at sea, we explored the island of Rhodes and a day on the island of Santorini. When we wake tomorrow, we’ll be docked on the island of Crete.
Tyler and I compromised when it came to his phone. He leaves it in the cabin during the day, but he plays catch-up with notifications in the evening. I get it. It’s hard to completely unplug when he’s building a musical empire. He convinced me to upgrade to a balcony suite, and I’m glad he did. I can’t imagine only having one tiny porthole to look out. I’m not typically claustrophobic, but excusing myself for fresh air (and a glass of wine) while he works from his phone on the bed has been wonderful. The view of the waves chasing the horizon settles my nerves.
Around the anniversary of my dad’s death, I tend to feel off. Imiss him in small ways every day, but May is excruciatingly brutal. This year, though, finally taking the trip he planned for me, I feel closer to him than I have in years.
We’re on our way to dinner when a group of Americans recognizes Tyler. He politely poses for a few selfies so he doesn’t get a reputation for being an asshole to his fans. Yesterday he got mistaken for Machine Gun Kelly, but neither of us had the heart to correct the ecstatic fan.
Dinner on the ship tonight is beautiful, romantic, enchanting. Tyler listens intently to several manic ideas about my book and only pipes in once or twice with advice. Having his undivided attention makes my insides fizz like the effervescent champagne we’re indulging in. Our table is pressed against the floor-to-ceiling windows, offering us front-row seats to the world’s most magnificent sunset.
Clinking his glass of champagne with mine, Tyler announces, “To us. To you, my love.”
“To us,” I repeat.
The restaurant is cozy and quiet, with only a few servers, since we preselected our course options using an app ahead of time.
A server has just placed salads in front of us when Tyler asks, “Have you talked to your mom lately?”
I set my napkin in my lap and let out a noncommittal hum as I bring my champagne to my lips.
Tyler runs a finger up and down the stem of his glass before taking a long swig. “Do you know if she’s using again?”
My chest caves and I sigh. “She’s always using.”
“You know what I mean.”
I do. What he wants to know is whether she’s using more than normal. My mom’s tolerance for pain medication is exceptionally high after years of abuse.
I shrug. “I don’t think so?”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
Draining the lemon-infused olive oil from its tiny tin dispenser over my salad, I keep my focus downcast. “Just before we left, actually.”
We visited my dad’s grave together since I would be traveling over the anniversary of his death. At first my mom refused to accompany me, something she’s never done before. That registered as odd, but I tried not to give the thought too much power. She could have had a million reasons for not wanting to go. But when I picked her up, she was simultaneously groggy and jittery. That wasn’t totally out of the ordinary. What was, though, was her inability to string together a coherent sentence and the way she fussed with her hair obsessively on the drive to the cemetery—her tell. She was strung out.
I tried not to let her behavior affect my emotions at the cemetery, but our visit was cut short by her incessant need to talk about her newest fling. Frankthisand Frankthat.What he does for a living, where he’s taking her on vacation next.
“Can you just shut the fuck up for one minute?” I blurted. Apparently my prefrontal cortex could no longer regulate my ability to keep quiet.
